


The Touch of Death Affair

by JeanGraham



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:47:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25744564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeanGraham/pseuds/JeanGraham
Summary: A deadly viral strain & an evil woman from Solo & Illya's past.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	The Touch of Death Affair

The Touch of Death Affair 

* * *

  
by Jean Graham

The Munich restaurant was filled with muted conversation, soft   
music and drifting clouds of grey cigarette smoke. Napoleon Solo   
and Illya Kuryakin, welcoming a respite from the heat of the August   
afternoon, stepped into the foyer and quietly scanned the   
restaurant's many early dinner patrons. One of them would be their   
contact.

"Which one is table _dreizehn?"_ Solo asked under his breath. "I   
don't see any numbers."

The head waiter approached them, menus tucked primly under his arm.   
"Guten Tag, Meine Herren. Platze fur zwei?"

Illya shook his head. "Nein, danke," he said politely. "Wir   
treffen hier eine Bekannte. Konnen Sie uns sagen, bitte, wo Tisch   
nummer dreizehn ist?"

The waiter nodded. "Selbst verstandlich. Folgen Sie Mir, bitte,   
Meine Herren."

As they walked behind him into the smoke-filled room, Illya said,   
"When in doubt, one can always ask."

Solo, whose German was considerably less than adequate, scowled at   
him in response. "That," he quipped, "is easy for _you_ to say."

They arrived at a somewhat secluded corner booth, and Solo found   
himself smiling in pleasant surprise as their contact greeted them.   
He would be the last to complain about discovering, to his pleasant   
surprise, that their contact was female. That she also happened to   
be attractive was, however, an extra added dividend. Never let it   
be said that Napoleon Solo knew not how to appreciate the finer   
sex...

She shook Solo's hand firmly. "Mr. Solo? I'm Debra Warner."

"My pleasure," Solo said, and meant it. He was surprised for the   
second time when she turned to Illya and said, "Dobri Dien, Illya   
Nickovetch."

Illya offered her a faint smile. "Hello, Debra."

Solo cleared his throat as they were seated. "You didn't tell me   
the two of you were acquainted," he said to Illya.

The Russian agent shrugged. "You never asked."

"Illya and I worked together last year in Lisbon," Debra explained.   
"I believe you were in North Africa at the time, Mr. Solo."

"Was I?" Solo grinned. "You know you really shouldn't keep secrets   
from me, Illya. Especially when they're as pretty as this one."

  
"I suppose I should know by now," Illya said, "that keeping a   
beautiful woman from you would be no less easy than swimming up   
Niagara Falls."

Debra was still laughing at that when the waiter arrived to take   
their order. Then, when he had gone again, she turned to business   
and handed Solo a black and white photo of a sultry blonde woman   
wearing fur and jewels. "Fiola Thanos," she told him as Illya   
looked on and exchanged knowing looks with Solo. "You've met her   
before?"

"Uh... yes. Once. Only then she was calling herself Vureyka Dor.   
And the last time we saw her she was sinking to the bottom of a   
very large, damp lake."

"So Thrush has managed to bring yet another agent back from the   
dead," Illya remarked. "What is she up to this time? Murder?   
Subterfuge? Diamond and fur smuggling?"

"An experimental viral strain," Debra said seriously. "We don't   
know how it's carried or administered. But she's managed to kill   
two of our agents with it in the past week alone. It's fast-   
acting, untraceable, and definitely lethal."

"Well, that sounds like Vureyka," Solo said. "A few months ago in   
Washington it was a will gas she was peddling to Thrush. Looks   
like she's graduated to a somewhat deadlier field of competition."

Illya took the photograph from him. "Fiola Thanos," he repeated   
disdainfully. "How unoriginal."

Solo smirked. "I don't know. I think it gets the point across   
rather well."

"Unfortunately, we don't know where in Munich she's hiding," Debra   
said. "All we do know is that Thrush has an underground operation   
set up below a building near here. Infiltrating that may lead us   
to Fiola. Or Vureyka. Or whatever you call her."

"What I'd call her is 'deadly,'" Solo decided. "And the sooner we   
can put her out of business, the better."

After their meal was concluded, Debra led them back out into the   
afternoon sun and to a small black Volkswagen parked on the street.   
"When I graduate to full-time spy," she joked, "I'm going to buy   
myself a Mercedes. In the meantime, though, my Kafer will have to   
do."

"Kafer? " Solo echoed.

"It means Bug," said Illya.

"Oh."

They drove only four or five kilometers before Debra parked again   
in front of a towering grey stone cathedral. "Welcome to Thrush   
Eastern's newest West German satrapy," she said.

"You must be joking," Illya said, dismayed. "A church?"

"I'm afraid so. Oh, as far as we've been able to determine, the   
majority of the church operations are perfectly legitimate. They   
aren't even aware of Thrush's presence under their building. But   
somewhere in there is a secret entrance to the satrapy. And the   
only clue to Fiola Thanos' whereabouts."

"Wonderful," Solo breathed. "Shall we have a look inside?"

Debra opened the VW's glove compartment and removed a square   
styrene box. "Be with you in a minute." Solo watched her wind her   
hair into an attractive knot that was deftly fastened up by a   
number of hairpins from the box. Then, from further in the depths   
of the little glove compartment, she pulled a lace mantilla and   
draped it prettily over her head. "All right, gentlemen," she   
said. "Shall we go to church?"

The interior of the cathedral was, in a word, breathtaking.   
Rainbow hues of light streamed in through stained glass windows to   
warm the cold grey stones of the floor and dye them in reflective   
patterns that crept slowly eastward with the sun's motion. Candles   
flickered in their glass containers, tiers of light offered up to   
the saints. Their smoky fragrance, pungent yet far from   
unpleasant, reminded Solo of boyhood visits to his Aunt Amy's   
church in Queens. Of course, that had been a far smaller building,   
but it had been no less imposing to a seven-year-old Napoleon.

There were three priests silently conducting some ceremony-or-other   
at the altar. A few scattered worshipers sat or knelt in various   
places among the pews. Debra led them down a side aisle, performed   
a swift genuflection which they declined to imitate, and slipped   
quietly into one of the rows of polished wooden pews. They   
continued to follow her lead, kneeling as she did on the padded   
railing protruding from the bench ahead.

Illya watched the ritual at the altar with intense interest.   
Debra, noting his fascination, whispered from her place beside him.   
"Have you never been inside a church before, Illya Nickovetch?"

He glanced at her, and the corner of his mouth curled slightly.   
"Several. In Kiev, Leningrad, Moscow, and Vladivostok. But all of   
those were museums..."

"I think," interjected Solo in a whisper, "that if you'll examine   
those three gentlemen of the cloth up there a little more closely,   
you'll note that one of them has feathers under his frock."

Debra nodded. "The one in the center. His name is Klaus   
Brinkmann, and he's a West German agent for Thrush."

  
Illya watched the proceedings now with a renewed interest. "My,"   
he said. "How pious our fine-feathered friends are becoming."

The Thrush agent priest completed his ceremonial ministrations as   
they watched, and leaving his two companions, exited through a side   
door.

"I believe that's our cue," said Solo, and the three of them rose   
to surreptitiously follow. Their quarry led them into a stone   
courtyard, through a shadowy pillar-lined walkway and finally   
walked into a wider courtyard that could offer no cover for the   
pursuers. They hung back in the shadows, watching as the bogus   
priest crossed, paused near the bell tower, and glancing around to   
be sure he was unobserved, lifted a trapdoor at the base of the   
tower and hurried through, closing it carefully after him.

"Ah," said Illya. "The old tunnel under the belfry gambit. A   
trifle obvious, don't you think?"

"Maybe," Solo agreed. "And maybe they're just getting a little   
more careless than they used to be. If the two of you are willing   
to stay here and play back-up, I'll go and take a look." He pulled   
the U.N.C.L.E. Special from under his jacket and prepared to cross   
the sunlit courtyard.

Illya took out his silver pen communicator and tapped it once on   
the side. "If you need me," he said, "just whistle."

"I'll remember that." Solo followed in the Thrush agent's footsteps   
to the base of the tower, found the concealed trapdoor and   
cautiously lowered himself through the opening. He found the   
corridor at the base of the dusty stairs deserted and poorly-lit.   
It looked (and smelled) more like a catacomb than the entrance to   
a Thrush satrapy. Gun in hand, he moved soundlessly toward the   
only door, found it unlocked, and pushed it open to reveal a well-   
stocked but perfectly ordinary wine cellar.

 _Well,_ he considered, _Thrush has been known to hide its_  
 _operations behind false wine cellars before. There was that time_  
 _in Budapest..._

He'd begun making a slow circuit of the cellar, hunting for secret   
doors, when a sound made him spin -- and he found himself staring   
down the barrel of a Thrush rifle. "Welcome to my cellar, Mr.   
Solo," said the bogus Father Brinkmann. "I am sorry to disappoint   
you. But there is no longer a satrapy here. Only a trap."

With a sick smile at the Thrush agent's feeble joke, Solo dropped   
the U.N.C.L.E. Special and raised his hands.

  
* * *

  
"He's been in there an awfully long time," Debra  
said to Illya. "Don't you think you ought to call him?"

The Russian shook his head. "That could prove awkward. The   
communicator signal is notoriously noisy in closed places."

"Quite true," said a new voice. "But then, so are guns I'm told."   
The guard, wearing traditional Thrush fatigues, was pointing his   
homing rifle directly at Illya. "You will hand me your weapons   
now, Mr. Kuryakin. All of them."

  
* * *

  
Napoleon Solo remembered little beyond being bound and gagged by   
Klaus Brinkmann in the dank wine cellar. The Thrush agent had   
effectively stripped him of guns, communicator, explosive devices   
and several other U.N.C.L.E. gadgets. Then the sting of a   
hypodermic had sliced through the sleeve of his coat, and the world   
had gone hazy.

He could vaguely recall being carried out through a door (probably   
not the same one he'd come in by) and up a steep flight of stairs.   
Then there had been the _chuffing_ sound of a helicopter's blades,   
and shortly, the sinking feeling deep in the pit of his stomach   
that told him he was airborne. To where or whom he could only   
guess.

* * *

  
From their locked cell in the northern rectory of the church, Illya   
and Debra heard the helicopter pass close overhead.

"Some of the birds would seem to be taking flight," Illya commented   
wryly.

Debra sat miserably in one corner of the barren room. "Yes. For   
all the help it is to us. We're stuck in here with no   
communicators, no weapons and no way out."

"I wouldn't say that."

"You wouldn't?" She watched, captivated, as he removed a shoe and   
slid aside the false heel, dropping two thermite heat capsules into   
his palm.

"Either Thrush really is slipping," he said, "or they were simply   
in too big a rush to get out of here, probably taking Napoleon with   
them." He attached the heat pellets to the cell's lock as he   
spoke, and began searching his pockets in vain for something to   
ignite them with.

"No lighter?" Debra asked dismally. "Like I told you in Lisbon,   
it's what you get for not having any vices at all. No wine, no   
women. Not even cigarettes."

"I have been known," he said, frowning, "to indulge in two of the   
three from time to time. Just now, however, I'd settle for one   
good match. I don't suppose you--" At Debra's negative response,   
he turned his attention to the naked light bulb suspended from the   
ceiling above. "All right then. We do it the hard way."

Minutes later, Debra found herself in awe of Illya Kuryakin's   
talent for escape artistry. He had turned off the light (the cell,   
after all, had been designed for meditation, and not for holding   
prisoners) and working only in the dim illumination that came   
through the barred opening in the door, he'd wired the bulb socket   
to the lock, using the detached pull chain as a conductor. Then,   
with a flick of the switch and a flash of blinding light, the door   
was open, and they were out into the corridor, running.

Shouts and the sudden sputter of gunfire told them that all the   
Thrush operatives hadn't yet evacuated the premises. Debra and   
Illya sprinted down the narrow hall, turned a corner -- and   
collided headlong with two armed guards coming the other way.   
Illya came up swinging, knocking one of them to the floor before he   
could recover. Debra grabbed the other one by an outstretched arm   
and sent him flying over her shoulder to land with a bone-jarring   
thud against the nearest stone wall.

Illya dusted off his hands and retrieved the Thrush rifles from the   
floor. "You do that very well," he said, handing her one of the   
weapons.

"Thank you." Debra flipped back a section of her hair that had   
come loose during the fray. "I told you, I'm practicing to be a   
full-time spy. Now shall we make ourselves scarce before any more   
of their friends show up?"

Smiling, Illya gestured her forward. "After you," he said.

Once back in Debra's VW, Illya stashed the rifles safely out of   
sight in the back, and turned back to open the small glove   
compartment. "I don't suppose you carry a directional finder in   
here."

"It's hidden in the first aid kit. Why?"

While she negotiated Munich's early evening traffic, he removed the   
little white box and extracted the smaller metal device from inside   
it. When he had turned the miniature dials, a faint but distinct   
beeping sounded from the speaker.

"That's why," he said.

Debra was puzzled. "Solo? But they would have taken any homing   
devices away from him, wouldn't they?"

"Not unless they pulled his teeth. That's where this one is   
hidden." Illya studied the dial intently. "Take a left up ahead   
and keep moving due east..."

  
* * *

  
Napoleon Solo opened his eyes to find that he was secured to a   
straight-backed chair with his hands cuffed behind him. He   
appeared to be sitting in a penthouse apartment; windows on all   
sides showed clear views of the city. To one side, his Special and   
communicator lay in plain view on a glass-topped coffee table. And   
in front of him, the beautiful Vureyka Dor preened before a gilded   
wall mirror. She wore a low-cut white satin evening gown,   
diamonds, and long white gloves. Even the comb in her hand was   
diamond-studded.

"Ah, Mr. Solo, at last," she purred when she'd finally noticed that   
his eyes were open. "I'm afraid we never had the opportunity to   
meet properly in Washington. I'm Fiola Thanos."

"Vureyka Dor," Solo corrected. "And the pleasure is all yours."   
She bent over him in the chair, purposely affording him a clear   
view of her ample cleavage, and Solo, clearing his throat twice,   
added humbly, "Well, most of it anyhow."

"You have a 'way' with beautiful women, isn't that so, Mr. Solo?   
That is what they have always told me. Shall we see if it is   
true?" She caught his chin in one gloved hand and kissed him,   
firmly and eagerly. He considered trying to resist the action, but   
decided it would have been futile. If the lethal virus were   
somehow contained in her lipstick, she would surely have contracted   
it herself. Still...

"You're a very attractive man, Mr. Solo," she whispered into his   
ear. "I find you very interesting."

"Yes well that's all very nice," he whispered back. "But if you'd   
unlock these handcuffs, I'm sure I could be even more interesting."

She laughed. "That is what the last U.N.C.L.E. agent who came here   
also said. You really must learn to be more original."

Solo looked crushed. "You're just trying to hurt my feelings,   
Vureyka," he mocked.

"Oh, much more than that. You did come to Munich to find out about   
the Death virus, did you not?"

"Is that what you call it? Charming name."

"It's a very charming virus." Slowly, she began slipping the glove   
from her right hand. "It can kill within minutes. And the   
carrier... The carrier can wear it in something as perfectly   
innocent as, say, fingernail polish, and never be affected by it at   
all."

The white glove slithered off and fell to the plush carpet,   
revealing a hand with sculptured nails all painted a glistening   
shade of blood red.

"So utterly simple," she sighed, running the deadly fingers through   
Solo's hair. "One touch... One scratch... and the enemy is dealt   
with." She curled one finger in front of his eyes then, the nail   
poised to strike. "Good-bye, Mr. Solo..."

Gunfire erupted suddenly outside, and Vureyka retracted the claw   
just as the front door burst open to admit Debra Warner and Illya   
Kuryakin. Debra caught the startled Vureyka in a flying tackle;   
Illya was immediately embroiled in combat with a Thrush guard who   
had appeared from somewhere -- and Solo tried desperately to shout   
above the din loud enough to warn Debra about those lethal   
fingernails.

He wasn't certain she could hear him, but she seemed to be holding   
her own against the blonde Thrush siren. With one well-placed   
kick, Debra sent her spinning across the room to collide, by   
coincidence, with the guard Illya had just thrown in her direction.   
The man fell over her, and Vureyka, shrieking, grabbed him and   
buried her nails in the flesh of his arm. He gasped, and collapsed   
at once to the carpet. Within seconds, he had turned a deathly   
shade of pale, and gasping and choking, he writhed briefly on the   
floor before he fell silent, never to move again.

  
Vureyka took advantage of the split second during which this   
ghastly sight had frozen her onlookers, and made a dash for the   
still-open door. Illya caught her by the left arm, and when the   
lethal nails of her other hand slashed at him, he snagged them with   
a drapery that had been pulled down in the struggle, and wrapped   
the heavy cloth around and around until Vureyka's hand resembled an   
art-deco beehive. She screamed, kicking and biting as he tried to   
drag her toward a nearby table.

Debra plucked Solo's confiscated Special from the coffee table,   
hastily checked the clip, then fired a sleep dart directly at the   
flailing blonde banshee in Illya's arms.

Vureyka yelped and slapped frantically at her backside for a moment   
until the dart's effect made her crumple peacefully to the floor.

"Thank you," Illya breathed.

"My pleasure." She put the gun down again, watching as he used the   
drapery cord to tie the slumbering Vureyka to a sturdy table leg.   
"You do that very well," she said, echoing his earlier words.

"Practice." He finished the last knot with a flourish and stood   
up, only to find Debra in his arms.

"Would you teach me how to do that? I think I could definitely use   
a refresher course in knot-tying."

"Certainly."

"Ahem!" Napoleon Solo rattled the handcuffs that still bound him   
helplessly to the chair. "Excuse me. I really hate to interrupt,   
but would the two of you mind getting me out of here?"

"Did you hear something?" Debra asked Illya.

"Hm? Oh, that. You can ignore him."

Over Solo's further entreaties, she whispered, "Does he always make   
so much noise?"

"Yes, often. But he's harmless." The Russian agent smiled. "At   
least, for the moment."

Oblivious to both Solo's protests and to the insistent signal that   
had begun warbling from the communicator pen on the coffee table,   
Illya and Debra shared a long and lingering kiss...

THE END   


See all of my fanfic and links to my pro fiction at <http://jeangraham.20m.com.>


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